Piece of Cake (40 page)

“No fear,” said Kellaway comfortably.

“It'll be awfully quiet without you,” Rex said to his flight commanders. “I must get Skull to find me a good book. The exercise starts tonight.”

The pilots assembled in the library for briefing. Because Moke Miller had not yet returned from leave, CH3 was switched to “B” flight to make the numbers equal. Rex's instructions were simple. They would be taken by lorry to the Vosges and dropped, separately, in remote spots, each with only a hundred francs and enough rations for twenty-four hours. No map, no compass. Their task was to survive for one week on their own resources. Only one restriction: no criminal behavior. Any questions?

Glum silence.

“Oh, one other detail,” Rex said. “There may be a few companies of French mountain troops out looking for you. With dogs. I understand they're inclined to be rather ill-mannered, so don't stand any nonsense from them.”

He went out.

“This is all your fault,” Cox said to Stickwell.

“What? Me?” Stickwell spread his arms and put on a look of amazed innocence. “Honest, sir, I never done nuffink, sir.” He was like a depraved schoolboy.

“No. You're too stupid,” said Cattermole. “You're also too gutless.”

“Hey, hey! Steady on,” Flip Moran said. “There's no need for that, now.”

Cattermole stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, scowling at the carpet. “I can't stand fakers, that's all.”

“What the hell difference does it make, anyway?” Flash Gordon said. There was a heap of winter clothing on the table. He tossed a balaclava at Stickwell. “Try that for size.”

It was still gently snowing that night when they left.

The halt in flying also checked the quarrel between CH3 and Rex. Nothing more was said about close-formation flying or combat tactics, but it was obvious to everyone that the argument wasn't over. Soon they would be flying again, and what then? A showdown, presumably. There was a general expectation that Rex would cut CH3 down to size. CH3 was usually friendly enough, although a bit inclined to spike people with deadpan remarks, but on the subject of flying he was a pain in the ass. He knew everything; he'd done it all; he wouldn't stand for any difference of opinion. He didn't discuss: he stated. And that got up everyone's nose.

“As you know, sir, it wasn't my idea to have him here in the first place,” Rex said. He was walking in the grounds with Air Commodore Bletchley; Reilly zigzagged in front. “What makes it worse is that he really doesn't care whether he stays or goes.”

“He's told you this?”

“Not me personally. But he's made it clear to others that he expects to go. So he should, of course. Anyone else would have
gone,
long ago.”

“I see.” They passed a dozen airmen with shovels, widening the path. Bletchley said: “What doesn't he like?”

“Everything. He doesn't like the way we fly. He doesn't like our battle tactics. He doesn't even like the color of the airplanes,
would you believe. Come to that, he doesn't think much of the Hurricane itself.”

“Doesn't he, by God? He's off his rocker there.”

“He wants to change the guns. In fact he wants to change a lot of things. Fortunately he hasn't been able to influence my pilots. He's become such a crashing bore that they simply change the subject.”

“I gather he didn't make himself too popular by going all sniffy with Jacky Bellamy about your Dornier.”

“Ludicrous. It's one thing to bitch and bind after things go wrong, but this chap was pooh-poohing the squadron's first success! I mean, really …”

“He reckoned it was a fluke, or something.”

“What concerned me slightly was whether she might listen to him. You know: two Americans. I had a little chat.”

“So she told me. You convinced her.”

“Good.”

“Yes, we need that woman. Seen her latest piece?”

“No?”

“Oh, it's first-rate. She wrote up the military funeral you gave the Jerry crew. Brotherhood of the sky, generous victors, clean-cut English youth pay tribute to a gallant foe, that sort of thing. We came out of it steeped in Christian decency. Went down a treat in Washington, I'm told. I'll send you a copy.”

They watched Reilly flounder in the snow, trying to chase a squirrel. “Daft dog,” Rex said fondly. They climbed the steps to the terrace and went inside.

Sherry.

“Cheers. Well, Rex, what's to be done?”

“Since he's determined to be chopped, sir—cheers—I shall have to chop him, shan't I?”

“If you do, will he be discreet about it?”

“No. Probably not.”

“No. In any case that sort of thing always gets out and people always get it wrong. Stuffy English squadron cold-shoulders unorthodox Yank, that sort of thing. Could do great harm.”

“But that's absurd. We all know—”

“It doesn't matter what we know, Rex. We need American help to fight this war, or so I'm told, although why that should be I
can't understand, they certainly weren't much use last time, not until it was too late anyway …” Bletchley took a mouthful of sherry, worked it around his teeth, and swallowed. “Hart stays. Look at it this way: he's the price you pay for Jacky Bellamy's articles. What you must do is make sure he shoots down a Jerry as soon as possible. Then she'll really have something to write about.”

Rex nodded sombrely. “Frankly, sir, what gets on my tit is his rotten formation-flying. It's quite deliberate. I honestly don't see how I can tolerate that. It's not fair on the rest of the squadron.”

“There's a simple answer. Don't take him with you.”

Rex raised an eyebrow.

“Let him fly on his own. I'll get you a new pilot to replace him, plus an extra Hurricane. Then Hart can fly his own patrols. I can send you a bit of bumf to cover it, if you'd like.”

Rex examined the idea from all sides.

“It might look better,” he said, “if it had a name.”

“All right. Let's call him your Reconnaissance Liaison Unit.”

Rex nodded. “That'll do nicely. Thank you, sir. He's not a bad pilot, you know. He just doesn't fit in. Reconnaissance Liaison. Good. Perfect.”

Not much snow fell during the week of the survival exercise but the air was cold and it grew steadily colder, with a wind that came hunting out of the northeast as if it had an old score to settle. The adjutant could not remember such a cold winter. He went for a stroll one evening and felt the bodywarmth being sucked from his face and hands and neck. Ten minutes of that was enough. He went in and stood with his back to the fire and wondered how they were getting on.

Stickwell was the first to give up.

He arrived in a taxi on the Wednesday afternoon, sneezing hard and slightly burned about the right foot, which had been too near his campfire when he dozed off. There were also some fingers that looked frostbitten.

Kellaway had to pay the driver. It came to nearly two thousand francs. “Where on earth have you come from, Sticky?” he asked. “Christ knows, uncle,” Stickwell said hoarsely. “It might have been Bulgaria. Or maybe Belgium. It began with a B, anyway.
They weren't very nice.” He sneezed. “Kept telling me to bugger off. So I did.” As he hobbled inside, clutching the adjutant's arm, Reilly snarled at him. “They all do that,” he said. “Just 'cus I pinched one of their bones, they all gang up on me. Rotten stinking lousy greedy filthy brutes.”

Rex came down the stairs. “You didn't last the course,” he said. “That means you're dead.”

“Yes, sir.” Stickwell wiped his dripping nose on his stained sleeve. “I thought being dead would be more fun.” He sneezed again.

“Poor show.”

Next day a French army ambulance brought in Cattermole. He said he had cholera; they said he had food poisoning. On Friday, Mother Cox was delivered by the
gendarmerie:
a charge of arson was being considered. “They've got it all wrong, adj,” Cox said earnestly. “It wasn't really a barn, it was a sort of a hen-house, and it wasn't any use to anyone, you could tell …” He was followed by Pip Patterson, also in a taxi; he was crippled with chilblains. Fanny Barton was the only member of “A” flight to walk home. He limped up the driveway on Saturday morning, intact but exhausted and twelve pounds lighter.

“No sign of anyone from ‘B' flight,” Kellaway said to Skull. “That's funny.”

“Perhaps they all got captured by French mountain troops.”

“No, Rex invented them. I expect Flip's trudging around in circles somewhere. He was always hopeless at navigation.”

Sunday passed. Skull telephoned several hospitals and
préfectures
in and around the Vosges. Nothing. Rex began to look worried. “We can't afford to be caught at half-strength,” he said. “What if the snow goes? ‘A' flight's in no shape to fly.”

On Monday morning, the extra pilot promised by Bletchley arrived. His name was Dutton; David Dutton: tall, heavy-shouldered, with a bushy ginger mustache. Kellaway took him into the mess and introduced him. The pilots did not move from the armchairs in which they lay sprawled.

“Hello,” Dutton said.

“Don't be so sure,” Cattermole said, not looking up.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you're a replacement,” Stickwell began. He paused to cough wheezily. “Who are you replacing?”

“Whom,” Cox muttered.

“No idea,” Dutton said.

“I'm dead,” Patterson said feebly. “Replace me.” His eyes closed.

Fanny Barton was slowly waking up. “Hello,” he mumbled.

“This is Dutton,” Kellaway told him.

Barton blinked, and drifted off again. Silence, apart from slow breathing.

“They've had rather a rough week,” Kellaway explained.

“Yes?”

More silence. Cox settled deeper in his chair. “Whom,” he whispered to himself.

“Well,” Dutton said, “Perhaps I'd better …” A prolonged blast on a two-tone car horn interrupted him. He followed the adjutant to the window. On the forecourt was a green Bentley Continental tourer, with the top down. “‘B' flight's back!” Kellaway announced. Nobody answered.

A minute later, Flip Moran crashed into the room, followed by Fitzgerald and Gordon, each fighting to beat the other through the door. Then came CH3, playing a small accordion. “Scramble, scramble!” Moran shouted. “Everyone outside for lifeboat drill! There's a war on, you know!” Fitzgerald and Gordon rushed around, tipping armchairs. Cattermole swore grimly. Moran blew shrill blasts on a whistle. They all looked tanned, fit and smartly uniformed. “Where on earth have you been?” Kellaway asked. CH3 sounded a confused but happy chord. As the accordion wheezed shut, a flap on the top sprang open and a little cuckoo popped out. “Switzerland,” CH3 said. “You missed a treat, adj.”

“Switzerland,” Rex said heavily.

“B” flight was in his office, together with Kellaway and Skull. The skies had cleared and the room was awash with sunlight.

“Explain,” he said to Moran.

“There's not a lot to tell, sir. As soon as we met up we—”

“Wait. You all met up? How? You were dropped at least ten miles apart.”

“Smoke signals. CH3 lit a fire and made smoke signals. We all headed for them.”

Rex sniffed, and looked sideways at CH3. “Red Indian lore, no doubt.”

“I saw it in the movies, sir.”

“Then we found a village,” Moran said. “We pooled our cash and took a taxi to the nearest town. Épinal. Then we caught a train to Geneva.”

“Money?”

“CH3 telephoned his bank in New York. They cabled some dollars to a bank in Épinal. That took a few hours, of course.”

“We went to the pictures,” Flash Gordon said. “Greta Garbo. Very nice.”

“Arrived Geneva on Tuesday,” Moran went on. “Then we—”

“How? How did you get into Switzerland without passports?”

“I had my US passport,” CH3 said. “My uncle happens to be at the American embassy in Berne, and he fixed things for the others.”

“His uncle happens to be the ambassador,” Fitzgerald told Skull. Skull nodded wisely. Rex had turned away.

“We bought the Bentley in Geneva and drove to Chamonix and skied for the rest of the week,” Moran said. “Then we came back.”

“Jolly good hotel,” Fitz said. “Lots of popsies, damn good band, bar never closed. Super.”

“All paid for in dollars, I take it,” Rex said.

“The skiing's probably better at Gstaad,” CH3 said, “but we couldn't get through: the pass was closed.”

“What appalling luck,” Rex said. “My heart aches for you.”

“Still, we had a smashing time in Chamonix,” Gordon said. “The Swiss are—”

“That wasn't the object of the exercise though, was it?” Rex demanded. “I sent you on a survival scheme in the Vosges, not a popsy-party in Switzerland.”

“You didn't tell us
not
to go to Switzerland, sir,” Moran said.

“You knew very well what was intended.”

“I know what the orders were, sir. You said our task was to survive for one week. How or where we did it was left to us.”

“Rubbish. You didn't solve the problem, you ran away from it.”

“If I may say so, they exercised a certain strategic
nous,”
Skull
remarked. “Supposing the Vosges to be full of nominally hostile troops, the best course was to move into a safer area. Why, after all, face the enemy on his terms?”

“Because the real thing doesn't work like that!” Rex barked. “You've got to take war as it comes, not as you'd prefer it! You can't dodge risk because it's … it's … it's
inconvenient.”

“Then the terms of the exercise should have said so,” Moran declared stolidly.